Let it Go
by EOlivet
Summary: Samantha drives Jack home.


Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Hank Steinberg, Jerry Bruckheimer Television Productions and CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Timeline: Post-Suspect. Huge spoilers for the episode -- it will make lots more sense if you've actually seen it.  
  
Rating: R for language and content.  
  
Acknowledgments: Alt-S-R. That is all. And Anna, thanks for reading, even though you hadn't seen the episode. Maple Street gang, you guys are innocent in all this, although that certainly doesn't decrease your rockingness any.  
  
***  
  
Let it Go  
  
***  
  
It was at least two hours between the city and Westchester and they'd gotten the call about an hour and forty-five minutes ago. It was two hours and fifteen minutes -- a two hour train ride and a fifteen minute drive between the city and Jack's house and the last train left in five minutes, according to the clock on the wall above the table where the four of them were keeping a quiet vigil.  
  
Danny was at the end of the table, and he kept fidgeting -- shifting in his chair, the imitation leather protesting every time he slightly changed how he was seated. Every movement, every break in the silence was met by three pairs of female eyes -- two holding some type of understanding and empathy. Despite his outward behavior, they all knew Danny would definitely stay there until the others had returned. And he only was less than a half an hour subway ride from home.  
  
Vivian was to his right -- and she did not look at the clock. In fact, she had not looked at the clock since they'd gotten the call that it was over. She kept her eyes downward, fixed on Andy's picture which she'd taken and placed on the table when they'd gotten the call an hour and forty-five minutes ago. Only rarely did she look up, and that was to share a glance with one of her fellow vigil-keepers. It was about an hour and ten minutes -- an hour train ride and a ten minute drive from the city to her home, and the last train was leaving in twenty-five minutes. If she was able to get a cab, and they didn't hit theater traffic, she would probably be home in about an hour and a half to kiss her son good night  
  
Paula Van Doran was to her right and unlike Vivian, she seemingly had not taken her eyes off the clock since they'd gotten the call an hour and forty- five minutes ago. She sat at the table with her hands clasped in front of her -- her expression neutral, almost blank. The others around her couldn't tell if she was relieved or annoyed or just worn out like they all were. Nobody had spoken up when she'd taken a seat at the table after they'd found out it was over. Nor did they have any idea where she lived or how far she was from home.  
  
Samantha was at the other side of the table, across from Paula, to the left of the empty chair at the head of the table -- just as if this was a regular team meeting. She kept still in her chair, but found she could not keep her eyes on one place. They darted around the room -- from the clock to the now-empty white board to Andy's picture to the eyes of her colleagues to the empty office in the distance. It was normally about a thirty-five minute subway ride from here to her apartment, but given the lateness of the hour, she figured she'd probably take a cab. She wondered if she could share one with Danny, since she remembered they lived about ten blocks apart -- and he would certainly be here as late as she was.  
  
Her eyes continued their journey from the clock to the board to the picture -- before lighting upon a pair of weary eyes that had seemed to seek hers out.  
  
She must've done something to show her surprise, for the others quickly caught on and abandoned their places at the table. The members of his team all got up, but seemed stuck to their places on the floor -- no one able or willing to approach the almost haggard-looking man who hadn't yet said a word since he'd entered the office.  
  
Paula was the last to get up, but had no such trouble going up to him. "Jack." Her voice cut through the silence. "I need to talk to you a minute."  
  
Jack nodded, and followed her brisk pace at a slow, methodical speed -- his wet shoes the only sound that had come from him at that point.  
  
They all watched him disappear as quietly as he had entered.  
  
Vivian sighed, collecting her coat and her belongings. "I've got twenty minutes," she explained apologetically, even though she knew everyone -- including Jack -- would understand why she couldn't stay. "Good night."  
  
"Night, Viv," Danny called. He then turned to his remaining colleague. "Samantha, I'm gonna take off in a couple minutes -- want to split a cab uptown?"  
  
"No." The voice seemed to come from somewhere outside her. She turned to him and tried to smile. "You go ahead. I'll be okay."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yeah." Her eyes remained on that empty office.  
  
He shrugged, pulling on his coat. "OK. Have a good night."  
  
She seemed to be alone for only a minute before Jack had reappeared and was standing in front of her. He was soaked through, his hair matted to his head, his clothes clinging to his body like a second skin. The darkness of his suit a noticeable contrast to his abnormally pale face and heavy dark circles under his eyes. He looked so utterly lost.  
  
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally, he tentatively broke the silence. "I sent Martin home." His voice hoarse and raw.  
  
She nodded, knowing he did not expect a response from her.  
  
He glanced up at the clock and stared at it for a moment. "Train left ten minutes ago."  
  
She kept her eyes on him. "At least the hotel is closeby," she pointed out, trying to sound as upbeat as she could manage at this late hour.  
  
Now his gaze turned downward, toward his shoes, toward the floor, and his eyes closed -- the sight somehow being too painful to bear. "I want to go home," he murmured, his eyes opening.  
  
She was silent for a moment, then slowly approached him -- still maintaining that professional distance. "Come on, we can share a cab," she offered. "I'll stay with you as long as you need." Then she flinched as she realized how that might have sounded. They hadn't been together like that in months. But all she really wanted to do was comfort him -- hold him and let him know he didn't have to be so lost.  
  
"I'm not going to the hotel." His voice was low and he was not looking at her. "I want to go home."  
  
Home. The realization startled her. Home on the train. Home in Connecticut. Home to--  
  
Her eyes fell upon him again. He'd missed the last train. There was no way for him to get home unless...  
  
"OK," she heard herself saying. "OK. But you're in no shape to drive."  
  
He didn't protest.  
  
"Car's still out back?" she asked, retrieving her coat and bag from her chair.  
  
His nod was barely perceptible.  
  
Placing a hand on his arm, she practically guided him to the elevator. They did not say a word on the ride down to the garage level, the click of her heels and the squishy thuds of his waterlogged shoes the only accompaniment to their silent walk through the deserted garage to the car, parked all by itself at the furthest corner of the lot.  
  
"You have the keys?"  
  
Her words seemed to take a while to sink in, and only after a few moments did he produce a lonely key dangling from a keychain, which she quietly took from his hand.  
  
She opened the door and had gotten halfway into the car when she saw that he was still just standing there, his expression vacant -- his eyes perhaps replaying, reliving whatever had happened in Westchester.  
  
"Jack," she called, poking her head out of the door, looking up over the top of the car to where he was standing.  
  
His hand reached for the door and opened it, his gaze unchanged as he got in and shut the door behind him.  
  
The traffic was light -- not unusual for the lateness of the hour, and soon they were on the highway -- their only company the workaholics and night owls all headed home.  
  
"It's 95, right?" she questioned, scanning the green and white illuminated highway signs pointed in all different directions.  
  
"Jack -- you take 95 to get home?"  
  
"Yeah." It was the first thing he'd said since they'd left the office.  
  
The city landmarks dwindled, absorbed by the highway. They'd left behind her home and Danny's home and presumably Martin's home, though she had no idea where he lived. They were passing Vivian's home and maybe Paula's home -- depending on if she lived in some three-bedroom highrise on the Park, or some modest little development in the suburbs or a sprawling colonial in Connecticut -- someplace near or similar to Jack's home.  
  
"Which exit?" Samantha asked as soon as they'd crossed the state line.  
  
Nothing.  
  
She tried again. "Jack, where do you live?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Gripping the steering wheel, trying not to show her frustration, she turned to him. "Do I need to get on a different--"  
  
"I'll tell you when it comes up."  
  
She nodded and focused back on the road, trying not to notice the familiar sights around them. She'd driven this route hundreds of times before, but never in this context. She wondered now if she'd ever be able to look at it in the same way again -- especially when he revealed the exit to her. That exit, that number would be imprinted in her mind. It would no longer be one in a litany of exits she could take to get gas for her car or get a bite to eat. She was almost dreading the moment he told her. That exit she'd passed a hundred times and forgotten would now become one she'd always remember.  
  
"It's this one."  
  
She was so startled at the sudden sound of his voice that she didn't even notice the exit number or name as she turned off the highway. It didn't appear familiar, but nothing ever did, especially in the dark.  
  
There were two roads at the end of the exit. Two choices. "Which way?" she wondered.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Jack -- right or left? Which way is your house?"  
  
Again, silence.  
  
It was becoming harder and harder to hide her growing discomfort. She glanced over at him but he clearly did not see her. Sighing, she looked down one direction, then the other -- and turned toward where she saw lights. A school of some kind. She pulled off the road and into the parking lot, taking a few deep breaths to try and stay as calm as she could. Parking the car a little ways from the school, she finally turned to him.  
  
"Jack," she repeated, trying to maintain an even tone. "You need to give me directions so I can take you home. Now do I take a right out of here or a left?"  
  
He didn't speak. It was like she wasn't even there.  
  
"I don't see why you'd think I know the way to your house, since you've certainly never brought me home." Her calmness was evaporating in the face of his indifference.  
  
It was dark and cold and she was in some strange town in Connecticut where Jack's wife lived, in the middle of a parking lot of a school Jack's kids possibly attended. In a car with Jack, who had wanted to go home and now didn't seem to even know where he was. She was done being nice, as she grabbed his arm to get his attention, to make him see--  
  
"He's gonna fucking walk, Sam!"  
  
It was as if he was continuing a conversation he assumed they'd been having. Jack's words sunk in, that man's name stuck in her throat and she could not bring herself to repeat it. That, and saying it just might unhinge him completely.  
  
Instead, she chose to stay silent.  
  
"Judge owed his lawyer a favor -- the hearing's tomorrow. Van Doran says they can't make kidnapping without the confession. Just 'cause he asked for his fucking lawyer!" He sighed, looking down at the floor once again. "The rest is circumstantial. He'll plead out..." He paused, with a bitter and mirthless smile. " A smut conviction and a slap on the wrist."  
  
Swallowing her own outrage, she wanted to ask what had happened. Vivian had taken the call. All she'd told the rest of them was "It's over. Andy's OK."  
  
A loud, sharp sound assaulted her ears and her head instinctively turned to the door. Jack had gotten out of the car.  
  
He was just standing there, alone in the middle of that dimly lit school parking lot, minutes and yet miles away from home.  
  
She crossed around the front of the car and stood before him -- trying to see his eyes, which had returned to the ground. "Jack," she pleaded softly. "Let me take you home. I know you want to go home. Being out here isn't helping. It isn't right."  
  
He grabbed her and pulled her toward him, his hands gripping the back of her shoulders, breathing heavy, hot breath onto her face. His eyes were wild and desperate. "That's how I got him, Sam. I understood him. His weakness, his sickness, I saw it. He could've done so much good for those kids, for his life, but he couldn't help himself. He--"  
  
"Don't you _dare_ compare yourself to him," she warned between slow, deep breaths. "Those kids..." She broke out of his grip and shoved him away, but their eyes remained locked. "They couldn't fight back." Eyes flashing, she approached him again, her voice dangerously low. "You may have gotten into his head, but _don't_ think you could somehow understand him because of what happened with us." She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, as if to shake some sense into him -- then tightened her hold and extended her arms, pushing him backwards before he could respond.  
  
"I let him go, Sam!" The words broke free and stung her ears, and she turned away, not wanting to hear them. His hand was on her shoulder and he spun her around, begging, pleading with her to understand, to agree with him. "I got into his head and I let him go." His voice was loud, but breaking. The words were making her sick and she simply couldn't hear them anymore.  
  
"No," she hissed firmly, before stopping his rantings with her mouth, her lips, teeth, tongue clinging to his, devouring protest or doubt. His hands were everywhere -- in her hair, on her back, up and down her sides -- he was reaching, grasping for her, bringing her closer, closer--  
  
They were spinning, spinning as their touches became more urgent -- his fingers on her skin under her shirt -- kneading, prodding, needing -- her mouth on his neck -- lavishing, tasting, wanting -- her brain buzzing, her head spinning and spinning and her world turning upside down as she felt his hand cradling her head and the cool metal of the car hood against her back.  
  
Her hands gained new confidence, a new purpose as they worked in conjunction with his -- removing sanity, reason and everything tangible and necessary that separated them from each other. She started, gasping slightly at the all-too familiar and all-too seldom sensation, the spark he seemed to trigger in her. Blindly, she reached for him to pull him closer towards her -- eyes fluttering open and shut -- somewhere between control and surrender, the heat of their bodies and the chill of the night, the ache in her back and her knees and the detached euphoria sweeping over her that made everything else somehow insignificant.  
  
She was being lifted now, her shoulders rising from the metal, one of his hands firmly around her back, supporting her, the other still nestled in her hair in a gesture she found strangely intimate.  
  
Breath was scarce, as they exchanged precious gasps of it -- their lips meeting and parting as some sort of affirmation.  
  
Her throat was dry, her brow wet, her eyes moist as she focused determinedly on his face. His eyes found hers, tears forming, his gaze traveling beyond her, back to where he had been, back four hours away. Her hands that had latched around his shoulders now gripped both sides of his face as she brought him back with her singular glance.  
  
"Let...it...go." Her words were air, with no voice behind it. She could hold his gaze for only a second longer, before lapsing back into darkness, hands on his back now -- gasping, holding, his breath warming her face, drinking tears from his mouth, her own lips moving almost involuntarily. "Let it go." It had become a plea, a prayer -- and it broke from her lips at an increasingly rapid pace. "Let it go, let it go, letitgo..." until she could no longer form words -- now only hearing the mantra in her head with every gasp escaping from her.  
  
Her back and her legs and the night and the heat and it was all so good and so painful and she wanted to take it all away, take it away, away--  
  
The force propelled her against his chest, their throats finding voice, as they clutched each other and stumbled to the ground, tangled yet no longer entangled. She reached for him, gathering him in her arms and they were both shaking -- his sobs igniting tears of her own as she grieved for him, for the loss and the horror and the bitter revulsion that was all in a day's work for them.  
  
Cut and bruised outside and in, she could only hold him, let him know he was safe and not so lost and murmur the sole words of comfort that she knew right now. "Let it go, Jack. Please...just let it go."  
  
Their bodies long cooled, the night air was beginning to cut into her skin when he finally crawled away from her and awkwardly rose to his feet. She got up and they both got back in the car in silence. They had put themselves back together -- the only remnants of what had happened outside was a slight wildness to their hair and a barely perceptible flush in their cheeks.  
  
She kept her eyes forward, staring at the woods that surrounded the parking lot, the school off the exit they'd taken to bring Jack home. Then she felt his hand cover hers and she turned, looking at him for the first time since what had happened.  
  
"He'll never work again," she felt compelled to remind him. "He'll be a pariah wherever he goes. Who knows, he'll probably blow his brains out in frustration." She squeezed his hand. "But it'll never happen again."  
  
He let out a breath and quickly glanced at the floor. "Until the next time," he added.  
  
"I would've made the same choice, you know," she assured him. "We all would have."  
  
He looked up and she found his eyes, as she reached out to cradle the side of his face in her hand. He looked weary and spent, but maybe, maybe a little less lost.  
  
She blinked and stifled a yawn, then turned the key still in the ignition, bringing the car to life. Sitting back for a moment, she listened to the peaceful hum of the engine -- how hypnotic and soothing it was. She then leaned her folded arms against the steering wheel and glanced over at her fellow passenger. "Do you still want to go home?" she asked, trying to keep the utter exhaustion out of her voice.  
  
He smiled slightly, in spite of himself, and shook his head.  
  
"What about the hotel?" she offered.  
  
He sighed, his shoulders rising and falling -- but did not answer.  
  
Her foot pressed down on the brake and she was about to reach for the gear shift when he caught her hand. He looked at her, eyes shining. They were warm and grateful and perhaps even a little uncertain.  
  
"I'll stay with you as long as you need," she reassured him. Holding his gaze for a minute longer, she then turned her attention back to the wheel.  
  
The car turned out of the parking lot onto the street and was soon on the highway heading back towards the city. She hadn't noticed the number or the name of the exit before and she also made sure to avert her eyes this time. How could she ever drive past it now without thinking of the parking lot and the car and the heat and the dark. And the school four hours away that had brought them to this school on this night, four hours between his work and his marriage, four hours with the city in between, where she'd found him, where he'd found her, where he'd always be pulled two hours in either direction by everything that he could never truly let go.  
  
The End. 


End file.
